


A Council of Swans

by Rinner



Category: Original Work
Genre: Addiction, Boarding School, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Other, Student Council
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinner/pseuds/Rinner
Summary: Experimentally uploading my own work to see where it goes. Who knows. Not monetizing it for reasons explained in author's notes.Unfortunately-named Robert Fagot does his best to live down his name, and up to the expectations of others; the pressure of perfection from his parents, most notably. So when his mother drops a flyer for the boarding school, The Acadia School for the Fine Arts and Humanities, he begins to pack his bags.Acadia is rich and beautiful, and Robert soon falls in love--however, as with all beautiful things, there is more to Acadia than money and finesse. Through the encouragement of his eccentric painting teacher, Robert becomes involved with Acadia's student council, a position that holds dazzling glamour, and guarantees a status on the school's campus. However, the council oversees much more than simple student activities; and their thirst for power will cost someone their life.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. It's me. No promises on this one. Read my end notes.

_I met a traveler from an antique land_

_Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone_

_Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,_

_Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,_

_And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,_

_Tell that its sculptor well those passions read_

_Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,_

_The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:_

_And on the pedestal these words appear:_

_'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:_

_Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'_

_Nothing beside remains. Round the decay_

_Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare_

_The lone and level sands stretch far away._

_-“Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley_

 

 

 

Prologue

 

           In retrospect, I think it was Edmund’s death that finally pushed Gabriel over the edge. Not to say that any of us did much to stop it—though, in our defense, we could never have known it would go this far. I believe now that it was at the funeral, as he was watching the coffin being lowered into the ground, and knowing that he was, to a very high degree, responsible for it, that the truth became too much. In fact, we were _all_ responsible for Edmund’s death, all of us in cruel, horrible ways, which if you had told me about just a year previously, I’d have never believed you.  
           It’s strange how willing we are to believe in something impossible, or to go to unthinkable lengths when we genuinely think our cause is worthy. I think that Gabriel knew this, and used it against us; then again, he had to believe in the goodness of his own cause, as well. This sort of argument of right and wrong could go on for hours, but what mattered was that Edmund was dead, and we had all but pulled the trigger ourselves.   
           They played the 911 phone call for us the day after the body was found. Some unknown woman, her voice shrill and hysterical, was shrieking about blood everywhere and broken glass. Her monologue was interrupted by sobs which stay with me still, nearly two decades later. I couldn’t speak on my own composure, but most everyone else looked terrible; Adrien and Florence were pale as death, their matching green eyes fixed intentionally on their shoes. Angelique stood rigidly straight, beautiful against the light from the window, not moving; however, looking closer revealed a wetness in her darkened eyes. Even the lawyer looked shocked. Gabriel, however, sat in his chair with a sort of tense silence, the likes of which I have not seen since. His thick, black brows were relaxed, and not one bead of sweat appeared on his tanned forehead. One hand was curled slightly next to his mouth, the elbow resting on the wooden table in a position of deep contemplation, which, even then, I knew to be fake. It was at that moment I realized something had gone terribly wrong—but I was not yet in a position to know what.

           I am the first to admit that I’m a terrible person. I don’t say this ironically, either; I’m not fishing for sympathy or using some sort of reverse psychology to make you think that I’m not. Every day for at least ten years, the memories of my time at the Acadia School for the Fine Arts and Humanities haunted me like a bad dream. Some of it, I don’t remember at all, and other parts used play back before my eyes in vivid Technicolor. Even so much as hearing the name “Edmund” would hit me with a dizzy spell; sometimes it felt as though I’d been shot.

           You may still think well of me now, but I promise, that is soon to change. One day—hopefully, perhaps, sooner than later—I will die, and I will be forced to stand before God, and this is the story I will tell. These will be the last words I’ll ever say before he justly strikes me down, deep into the circles of hell.


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploading intro + first chapter together. Godspeed!

Part One: Acadia

 

 

           I was born Robert Jonathan Fagot, and no one has _ever_ let me forget it. I spent a large portion of my middle school years researching last name changes, and wondering why my parents would curse me to such a life.

           This is, however, not meant as a detriment to the character of my parents. I had plenty of other things that I could use for that.  
            Growing up, we were not poor, but we weren’t particularly rich, either. My mother made up for that by pushing me as far as I could go in academics. She sent me to a nice, private school—the means by which she and my father paid for this are still unknown—on the other side of D.C., where we lived at the time. I took advanced classes—although, how anyone could conceive that separating “advanced” five-year-olds from their peers was a good idea is beyond me. It made me a freak, an outcast, and I was ostracized from the rest of the children. It wasn’t that I was stupid—I’m quite smart, actually, and I don’t say that lightly. But people weren’t always my strong suit, especially not at five years old, when all you know are cartoons and the fear of losing that coveted “A” on your semester report card.

           I had very few friends in school. Like I mentioned, I had been an outcast in elementary and in middle school, as well as in the beginning of high school; being Robert Fagot does not get you very far. Once I’d accepted my fate, however, things weren’t so bad; I didn’t spend much time with friends, and I _certainly_ never went to parties, but I had people to eat lunch with, and enough reputation to avoid ending up being stuffed into lockers.

On the whole, however, I actually quite liked living in D.C. Many people often complain about the pains of living in such a place—a big city with lots of traffic, pollution, and crime, but to me, what other people saw as inconveniences, I saw as signs of life. As previously mentioned, people were not my strong suit, but I enjoy being around them. I couldn’t stand the idea of being isolated; part of the reason that school had been so hard on me for so long. We lived in a nice suburb on the outskirts of the city, not so close as to be overcrowded, but close enough that I could take a bus into the heart of D.C., and spend hours wandering wherever I wanted to go. My parents were surprisingly lax about this—so long as my grades were up and my homework was done, after I turned fourteen, I was allowed to wander as I pleased.

My father, Charles Fagot, I saw very little of, and for that I am very grateful. He was a tall, gruff man, very loud and commanding. I, wiry, frail, and somewhat prone to illness, did not inherit these traits, and I always had the feeling that he regarded this with great distaste. The only times he was really present in my life were when my grades dipped a little lower than they should have, and my mother called upon his yelling expertise after she saw my report card. It was a request that he delivered upon with remarkable skill.

           However, it was not often that she had to call on him, because my grades rarely dipped below the “A” range, except in subjects such as math, where I was a miserable failure in everything except accounting (although, I scraped by with B’s). My otherwise flawless grades, however, made my mother incredibly happy, and even now, I still remember the crippling secondhand embarrassment of hearing her bragging to the other parents at the school about her incredible “gifted” child. My intelligence became much less a gift of my own, and much more an asset of hers, which she used to bite and elbow her way into the upper crusts of society. That’s where we had heard about Acadia.

           The whole catastrophe started in fall of my sophomore year. The school was raising money for children’s cancer awareness and had cooked a dinner, where, for $75 a plate, you could eat mediocre chicken parmesan and boxed cheesecake in the school gym by candlelight.

           It was Mrs. O’Malley who brought it up, damn her. Mrs. O’Malley often took it upon herself to try and one-up anyone who was within earshot. That particular night, it was my mother; I wasn’t always terribly fond of my mother, but she certainly didn’t deserve to be spoken down to by Katherine O’Malley.

           “Christopher will be finishing up high school at Acadia after this year,” Mrs. O’Malley announced loudly to whoever might have been listening—which was no one, really. Apparently, she noticed this, because she then turned to my mother and said: “Surely, you’ve gotten one of their letters, right Helen?”

           My mother perked up like a hunting dog who had gotten wind of an injured boar. “Sorry, Katherine,” she said in a sickeningly polite manner. “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

           “Have you received an invitation from Acadia School of Fine Arts?” she said again. “Christopher will be going there next fall. It’s being hailed as one of the most prestigious private schools in the northeast. Really spectacular, don’t you think?” She looked at me; I looked at my mediocre chicken. “Or, perhaps Robert would be more comfortable staying here.”

           Of course, it was just my luck that the other week, I had happened to mention an interest in linguistics, or maybe accounting, rather offhandedly to my mother, who had been asking me about college (imagine—asking a sixteen-year-old about college and expecting a cognizant answer?). At the final sentence, I could see my mother begin to prickle with anger, and I knew where this was going to go.

           _“Actually,”_ she said, her voice so full of repugnance that the air around it seemed to shake, “we did. Robert has been considering it for his future in linguistics, but since he’ll be starting advanced college courses in the fall, we were considering him staying here.”

           “Oh, Acadia has college courses,” Mrs. O’Malley said sweetly. I was still staring at my chicken, trying to recall anyone saying _anything_ about any “advanced college courses,” and coming up empty. “Chris will be taking them there, as well. Let me show you some pictures of the campus—I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like it.”

           My mother was silent on the drive home. I may as well have just started packing my bags that very night; when I awoke the next morning, there was a printout of the application instructions for Acadia School for the Fine Arts and Humanities, along with a new pen and a pamphlet of the campus.

           Although I hadn’t been entirely on board with the idea of switching schools in the middle of high school, Acadia slowly began to win me over. It was a boarding school, up in the north of New Hampshire. Most of it appeared to be out in the country, but it was directly next to a beautiful historic town, which was apparently known for being very safe and friendly towards the students. The school itself was made of beautiful white stone, with rich green lawns, and trees that turned deep crimson and orange in the fall. There were big, airy dormitories, and a swimming pool for exclusive use by the students. Tennis courts dotted the back lawns, and next to them, a high-steepled church stretched into a perfectly blue sky. I would miss the buzz of D.C., but a change, I thought, would be good for me.

           This was, at least, what I thought until I reached the very end of the website—tuition costs. With room and board, the total came to almost $40,000 per year; that didn’t include my travel or outside expenses, either. Seeing the number in print was physically painful for me; this, I thought, was the end of the dream.

           But, we waited still. I didn’t bring the cost up to my mother, and she never said anything to me. Weeks passed. My mother paced anxiously around the house, ignoring calls from Mrs. O’Malley, who wanted to “check on how the application was going,” but by this, she meant that she was waiting to hear the news that we’d been turned down. On top of being expensive, Acadia was also _very_ exclusive. Students went there either possessed remarkable amounts of talent, or remarkable amounts of money. I certainly didn’t have the latter, so I supposed that I had only my grades to count on as proof that I was worthy of being in such a place.

           It was April when the letter finally came in. It arrived inside a starch paper envelope, tied shut with red string, and sealed with a wax stamp featuring a fancy letter “A.” Inside was a letter from the Dean of Admissions:

           _Dear Mr. Fagot,_

I took a moment to thank God, if he was out there, for the correct spelling of my name.

           _It is my greatest pleasure to announce that you have been admitted to Acadia School for the Fine Arts and Humanities for the ’96-97 academic year. Our term starts on the 13 th of August, and move-in begins on the 11th._

I eagerly scanned the rest of the letter; fill out dorm applications, financial aid package, picking classes, etc. The bit about financial aid worried me for a second, but I was too overwhelmed by my success to dwell on it for more than a few seconds. Finally, I thought, I’d be out on my own, a real adult—though, at sixteen, what did I know—and away from the daily pressures of my parents.

           When my mother came home, I practically threw the letter at her. She was annoyed, and snapped at me for scaring her, but when she saw what the letter was, she forgot all about it. Looking back, I think this was one of the few times my mother was ever _genuinely_ proud of me; not proud in herself for raising the ideal child, or proud that she now had something to show off to her friends, but proud of _me,_ just me, for what I’d done. She threw her arms around me, and we laughed and carried on all afternoon. Even my father, for what I count as the first of three times, smiled a bit at me when he heard the news. At the time, I thought it was the best thing that could ever happen to me.

\--

           The rest of the year passed quite quickly after that. My mother was in a fabulous mood, now that her son had met all of her expectations, and I had to admit, I was feeling pretty good as well. The same could not be said for Mrs. O’Malley, however; she clearly had not expected me to make it into Acadia, or to even stand a chance to begin with (the O’Malley’s came from quite a lot of money, by the way), and she showed this by spoiling Chris in front of everyone, and being particularly unpleasant towards me.

           Fortunately, Chris was a much better sport about it than his mother, and I could tell that her obviously ill-natured outbursts of “affection” were more embarrassing to him than anything else. He and I had never really spoken, but after he learned of our similar fates, we exchanged quiet smiles in the hallway every now and again.

           Finally, after a drawn-out and blisteringly hot summer, August 11th arrived, and I found myself standing at the bus stop, surrounded by most of my possessions and a one-way ticket to Pearlshaw Bus Station, in the north of New Hampshire. I slept through most of the ten hour bus ride; when I awoke, a soft female voice was saying “Now arriving: Pearlshaw station. Thank you for travelling with Lightning Bus Corporation.”

           With the help of one of the (considerably stronger) bus attendants, I unloaded all of my earthly possessions from the back of the bus, and made my way into the station. It was a small station, fortunately, and near the entrance, I saw a tall man in a black jacket waiting with a sign that said “ACADIA SCHOOL OF FINE ARTS.” I approached him, and he met my eye with a warm smile.

           “Hello,” he said. “Are you one of the new students?”

           I nodded, and he extended his hand to me. “I’m Doctor William Lowrey, I teach physical science at Acadia. We always send out teachers to come escort the new students.”

           “Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand. “Doctor” made him seem a bit overqualified to teach at a high school level, but then again, maybe Acadia paid well enough to make the job worthwhile. I noticed that I was the only student by his side; “Um, is there anyone else?”

           He looked down at his watch. “Well, it’s about six now… One of my colleagues should be coming before the next arrival, and he’ll assist any students from then until closing. So I suppose it’s just you and me.”

           I nodded again, tired and complacent enough to go along with anything someone told me. He offered to take one of my bags, and I obliged; as we walked out of the station, I found my voice and asked:  
           “You said you teach physical science, right?” I asked. “Is there a lot of demand for that at Acadia?”

           The moment the question escaped my mouth, I regretted it; the look on his face told me that this was something he was asked _quite_ often, and he settled on an exasperated smile as he turned back to me.

           “Well, to a certain extent, yes,” he said. “Acadia may be an arts school, but our students still have to meet state education standards.” He looked over me somewhat quizzically. “I’m sorry, I haven’t asked you your name yet.”

           “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “My name is Robert, Robert, um…”

           I swallowed hard, and said my last name in the smallest voice I could muster. One of Dr. Lowry’s dark eyebrows shot up in response, but he quickly recomposed himself.

           “Nice to meet you, Robert,” he said. He paused, thinking. “I believe I have you in my class.”

           “Oh,” I said. I wasn’t really sure what classes I was taking; I knew that I was signed up for basic science and math courses, but I hadn’t really taken a very long look at the schedule the school had sent me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really know.”

           “That’s quite alright,” he said, waving down a taxi. “The registrar at Acadia handles all students classes for them, so it’s not uncommon for new students to come in feeling a little blind. You’ll be fine, though. No need to worry.”

           He said this with such genuine confidence, that, for a moment, it really _did_ melt away all of my worries; however, such a thing could never _actually_ be possible, for, while most people are made up of 70% water, I am made of 70% stress.

           We got into a taxi, and Dr. Lowry gave the driver the address. “We’re going to go straight to the dorm,” he said. “It’s good that you have some time to unpack. Was it a long bus ride for you?”

           “Yeah, pretty long,” I said. “Ten hours.”

           “Good lord,” he said. “I don’t envy you. I’m not much one for cars; I prefer to walk or bike, but I suppose that it’s unavoidable. Where did you come from?”  
           “Washington D.C.,” I said. It was rather warm in the cab, and I was moments away from falling asleep.

           “Do you like living there?”

           I nodded. Dr. Lowry seemed to be picking up on the fact that I was tired, and didn’t ask me any more questions for the rest of the ride. I let my head rest on the cool glass of the taxi window; unlike D.C., Pearlshaw was small and quiet, with big, white-washed buildings, who had baskets of flowers by their doors. Trees and distant mountains rose above the roofs; church steeples peppered the landscape. The town had a much cozier, freer feeling than my tightly-packed D.C. suburb did; we passed a brick-and-mortar building called “Nadine’s Diner,” where two elderly men sat outside, deeply absorbed in a game of checkers.

           As we approached the school, the buildings began to disappear, and we drove through a sea of green for about half a mile, until I could see the peak of a clock tower rising in the distance. I got a split-second view of the school, before the driver took a sharp left, and we began towards a cluster of white buildings.

           “Those are the dorms,” Dr. Lowry said. “You’re in that one over there, according to my list.” He pointed to a three-story building, with big windows and a shady oak tree in the front. “That’s Winchester Hall.”

           I was already quite enthralled; the airiness of the dorms was a stark difference from the small apartment that I’d grown up in. We’d had no garden, no shade trees, and no view that came even remotely close to this one: smoky blue mountains, and big, welcoming trees.

           “I love it,” I said

 

 without thinking. Dr. Lowry laughed.

           “Good,” he said. “The dorms are very friendly places; I understand that many students leave their doors open, and that communal kitchens mean lots of shared meals. I think you’ll be able to make friends here very easily.”

           This was massively relieving; I had many other worries to attend to without difficult social interactions adding to the list.

           The taxi driver slowed to a stop in front of the white-washed building, and Dr. Lowry handed him a credit card emblazoned with the Acadia coat of arms; it reminded me of just how high-society of a place I was about to enter.

           “Thank you,” Dr. Lowry said to the taxi driver, who was handing him his credit card back. “Robert, your things?”

           We pulled the two suitcases out of the back of the taxi, and I slung my book bag over my shoulders. “Well, if there’s nothing else you need, I think I should be going while the taxi’s here,” he said. “Your classes start at 9 AM on Monday, there’ll be a paper schedule waiting for you in the morning. Will you be all right moving in on your own?”

           I nodded. “Fantastic,” he said. “Oh—“ he pointed to the front door. “You’re going to need to talk to the dorm head to get your key and sign in. If you need anything, here’s the number for residence life, as well as my personal email.” He extended a small piece of notebook paper, which I accepted and slid into my pocket. “Good luck, Robert—I’ll see you in my class on Tuesday.”

           “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

           And I really did. Dr. Lowry slipped me one last good-natured smile, before getting into the cab and saying something to the driver. They sped off, leaving me alone in front of the dorm.

           My room was on the third floor, and it was good luck that there was an elevator in this building, because taking the suitcases up the stairs would have been insufferable. The person who was in charge of the dorm was a burly, friendly looking man, with a big ginger beard and a beer gut that preceded him by quite a lot. He greeted me warmly, and gave me my key, then directed me to my room: a white door at the very back of the third floor.

           It was better than I’d hoped; wide and airy, with a big window covered by white linen curtains. In the corner was a twin-sized bed with a mattress; the rest of the room was bare, except for a dresser with a mirror over it, a desk, and a simple chair. I looked at my row of suitcases, then at the bed. After a moment, I unzipped the big royal blue one, which contained a blanket and pillow, and threw them on the bed. I dived in after them, and within seconds, was fast asleep.

\--

           When I awoke, it had grown dark outside, and the only light in the room came from a glowing orange streetlamp. I fumbled around for the light switch, and the long fluorescent bulb above me came to life with a hum. I stared at my empty room; I had forgotten that I’d yet to unpack.

           I began emptying the contents of my suitcase, and placing them in spots I felt appropriate. I hadn’t brought much with me in the way of décor; I placed a couple of academic awards that I had won on top of the wooden dresser, as well as a small bronze model of the capital, which I had gotten on a field trip in middle school. The books I had brought—maybe more than I should have—went on the desk, and I balanced my iron bookend precariously at the edge of the desk. It didn’t fall, so I crossed my fingers and went back to unpacking.

           The next suitcase was mostly clothes. I didn’t have a lot of particularly “nice” clothes, but I brought what I had, and prayed that I wouldn’t need them. From beneath a pair of jeans, I unfolded a well-worn t-shirt with a picture of a snarling bulldog and the words “ST. JOHN’S ACADEMY” emblazoned above it. St. John’s was the high school I’d attended before transferring to Acadia. I felt a very small but very poignant flash of anxiety; was this a good idea? Moving ten hours away and starting over in a place where I knew nobody? Was I going to regret this in six months?

           The answer to that question turned out to be a “sort of,” but at that precise moment, there was a terrible crash from across the room, which scared me so bad that I flung the t-shirt somewhere over by the bed. I turned around to see that my bookend had finally given in and fallen off the desk, with a few of my books behind it. I walked over and picked it up; the bookend itself had taken no damage, nor had any of my books, but there was a light scratch on the wooden floor. I hoped no one noticed that.

           As I was rearranging my desk, there was a knock on the door. I frowned, and placed the bookend in a more stable spot. When I opened the door, a girl around my age was standing in the hallway, looking concerned.

           “Is everything alright?” she asked. Her dark eyes, hidden slightly behind a pair of rimmed glasses, searched my face before entering my room. “I heard a crash.”

           “It’s fine,” I assured her. “My books just fell. Sorry for startling you.”

           “Not at all,” she said. She had a thick accent, which I realized suddenly was Bostonian. “Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around.”

           “Uh, yes,” I said. It wasn’t that I didn’t have any interest in talking to the girl, but that I found every single social situation I entered to be a tedious effort on my part not to say something stupid, and it quickly became exhausting. “I’m Robert, I’m a junior.”

           “Hi, Robert,” she said, extending her hand. She didn’t ask about my last name, which I was extremely grateful for. “My name’s Regina Abelman. I live below you.”

           That explained how she’d heard the crash. “Nice to meet you,” I said; I looked back at my room, which was in total disarray. “Uh, I’d invite you in, but…”

           “No problem,” she said. “Do you need anything? Poster tape or the like?”

           “I’m all right, but thanks,” I said. “I don’t—“

           My stomach decided to interrupt the conversation with a low, but very deliberate growl, and I remembered all at once the meals that I’d skipped that day. “Uh…”

           She raised an eyebrow at me. “Hungry?”

           “Very.”

           “Everything’s closed now, but I have some snacks you can eat. Come on, it’s no bother.”

           I followed her down the stairs. On one hand, her friendliness somewhat frightened me—surely, I was only inches away at any given time from saying something stupid—but I was so immensely grateful, not only for company, but for food, that I was willing to do anything she said. She opened the door to her room—214—and we stepped inside.

           Unlike my own humble dorm, this one showed very clear signs of being lived in. I immediately pegged Regina as being a type A. Her bed was made, with not a pillow out of place, and her curtains, which were a dark, rich maroon, looked as though they’d been ironed not long before. Her desk boasted a healthy amount of leather-bound books with gold lettering, as well as a nice pen set, and an oil-burning lamp with a fancy porcelain shade. Instead of band or movie posters, her walls were decorated with images of classical art. Everything smelled faintly of lilac.

           “You aren’t allergic to anything, are you?” she asked, kneeling down in front of a side table, underneath which, there was a white mini fridge. “I have some leftover pasta from dinner the other night, but it has alfredo sauce and cheese.”

           “No, I’m fine,” I said. “Pasta sounds amazing, actually.”

           She nodded, and poured the contents of the container onto a white plate, which she then placed inside a microwave on a nearby shelf. As it began to heat up, I thought of a question:

           “Aren’t there kitchens here?” I asked. I hadn’t brought a fridge or a microwave, or even a plate.

           “Oh, yes, on the first floor there are, but I like having my own fridge and microwave,” she said. “Keeps things from mysteriously disappearing in the night.” She paused. “I’m also up quite late very often, and I don’t like to wake people up.”

           That seemed like enough explanation for me; she handed me the plate of steaming pasta and a plastic fork, and I dug into it like a dying man. Regina watched me eat with apparent amusement;

           “Don’t they feed you where you’re from?” she asked, half-smiling.

           “Um,” I said through a mouthful of alfredo. “Yes. I just didn’t really have a chance to eat at all today.”

           “Where _are_ you from?”

           “D.C. You?”

           “Boston.”

           Of course. The accent that had given her away immediately. _Dumb question,_ I thought to myself. I looked around at more of the room; upon closer inspection, I could see the titles of the books on her desk: _Great Literary Works of History: Vol I,_ followed all the way up through volume fourteen. I looked back to Regina; “You have a literature focus,” I said.

           She laughed. “I can see how you thought that. I’m in European history, though. I just enjoy reading.”

           “I do, too,” I said. “That’s a really nice set,” I said, gesturing to the books.

           “Thanks. My grandmother got them for me when I turned sixteen…”

           Our conversation progressed for the next half an hour, and I decided that I liked Regina. Not necessarily in a romantic way, but I was more than relieved to have someone to talk to. When I got back to my room, it was approaching one o’clock; it was a good thing I’d chosen to move in a day early.

           With my appetite now satiated, and my room in—somewhat—working order, I found myself collapsing onto the bed, and fell asleep.

_\--_

           The next day was busier; more people were moving in. I slept until noon, mentally exhausted from the journey of the previous day. I went down to ask Regina if I could borrow some glass cleaner for my windows, but she seemed to be out, and so I settled on reading alone for most of the afternoon.

           Overall, the first day passed without much excitement, except for one thing. I chose to eat alone outside; I hadn’t made any friends in my dorm, and Regina was still nowhere to be found. As I inhaled a tuna salad sandwich—I had slept through breakfast—I saw something swoop through the sky. The dark form of an eagle soared overhead, and I felt a small rush of excitement. They weren’t present in D.C., where there was nowhere for them to nest; I’d never seen one in the wild before. I followed its shape down the sky, admiring its grace, and as it swooped behind a building, something new caught my eye.

           A group of students had appeared from the administration building. I wasn’t sure what it was about them that had attracted my gaze; perhaps it was the way they were dressed, all very nice clothes and well-kept hair. Maybe it was the way they walked; proud and together, with a sense of confidence in their stride. All of the students seemed to know them; they waved politely and smiled, or exchanged brief conversation, but never joined them. The five of them made their rounds, then disappeared inside of main building.

           When I returned to my dorm that afternoon, Regina was in the kitchen. I had come to put away a leftover bottle of soda from my lunch, and when she saw me, she waved.

           “How was your first day?” she asked; she was stirring a pot of soup.

           “It wasn’t bad,” I said. It was true; I didn’t have any strong impressions to speak of. “How was yours?”

           “Good!” she said enthusiastically. “My neighbors are really nice, which is a welcome change. I had some really awful ones last semester.”

           It occurred to me that I hadn’t met my neighbors at all. With any luck, they wouldn’t be terrible. There were a few brief, awkward moments of silence where I searched for something to say; I remembered the group of students I’d seen out on the lawn.

           “Hey,” I said. “This is kind of a weird question, but…”

           She gave me a strange look, and I realized she was getting the wrong impression. “No, it’s just… I saw this group of students out on the lawn today,” I explained. “And I don’t really know what it was, but they just seemed… different. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

           Regina frowned. “How many were there?”

           “About five.”

           Her eyebrows contracted, then suddenly, her face lit up with realization. “Oh,” she said. “You’re talking about the student council!”

           “The… student council?”

           “Yes, the student council,” she said, going back to stirring her soup. “Doesn’t it sound glamorous?”

It sounded stressful to me. “Gabriel Auguste is the president,” she continued. “I think he’s speaking at the new student welcoming tonight; you should go.”

           I’d never heard of the student council, but Regina spoke quite fondly of the president. “New student welcoming?”

           “It happens every year,” she said. “The school headmaster speaks, then the student president, and whatever other guest they’ve chosen. It can be a bit boring, but there’s free food.”

           That was really all that was needed to convince me. “When is it?”

           “Tonight at eight, in the gym.”

           “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”

           She smiled politely at me, and I began climbing the stairs up to my dorm room. _The student council,_ I thought. To me, it seemed like a lot of busy work for not a lot of results—how much influence did a student council really _have,_ anyway?—but to each their own, I supposed. They did seem to be very well-liked; Regina’s reaction had convinced me of that.

           When seven-thirty arrived, I pulled myself out of a short nap, and got dressed to the point where I looked at least half-respectable. The gym wasn’t a very far walk; when I arrived, there were maybe a hundred people or so, milling around and waiting for the event to start.

           Much to my relief, there were already platters of food, and I wasted no time in helping myself to a particularly large shrimp hors d'oeuvre. It was better than the canned pasta sauce and frozen cheesecake of St. John’s by an easy mile. If this was where my tuition was going, I was at peace with it.

           Just as I reached for a second one, there were loud footsteps from on stage, and the room fell silent. I turned around with a piece of shrimp still unceremoniously grasped in my hand and watched as a young man around my age made his way downstage. He had black hair and tanned skin, but from the distance, I couldn’t see the details of his face.

           “Good evening, everyone,” he said. His voice was calm and pleasant. “Thank you so much for joining us tonight in welcoming the new students at Acadia Academy for Fine Arts and Humanities. For all those whom I have not been able to meet, I’m Gabriel Auguste, president of the Acadia Student Council. I’ll just be saying a few words before we hear from President Mannsel.”

           So that was Gabriel. He did have a presidential sort of manner to him; his voice was well-controlled and pleasant; where others might have balked at the idea of speaking to a hundred people, he not only embraced it, but appeared to thrive off of the rapt attention his audience was providing.

           “… has returned from sabbatical, and of course, the music department is thrilled to have him back,” he was saying. “There will be a reception this Friday afternoon in the Jones Music Hall. Now, to all the new students…” he smiled out at the crowd, polite and oozing charisma. “Welcome to Acadia. We know that things here can seem a bit intimidating at first—lots of large buildings, hundreds of new students, challenging classes—but you’ll find your place here in no time. The students at Acadia are always proud to welcome newcomers, and lend a hand wherever possible. And of course, you’ll have your loyal student council doing our best to make Acadia the perfect place for us all. Please, for just a brief moment, welcome our members.”

           Gabriel gestured to stage left, where another student appeared; he had thick, light blonde hair, which was swept stylishly over his face. Although I couldn’t see his features very well, I could tell that he was smiling good-naturedly, with dark, mischievous eyebrows. He strode up to Gabriel, and they shook hands.

           “My vice president, Edmund Yates,” he said.

           A girl appeared. She had black hair, trimmed into a bob, and wore a tight black skirt with a teal blouse; she gazed at the crowd with dark, hooded eyes. I found her a bit intimidating.

           “Treasurer, Angeline Sinclair,” Gabriel said. Upon hearing her name called, the girl’s face relaxed into a smile that melted away the fear that I had felt; I realized then that she was stunningly beautiful.

           “Secretary Adrien McClure,” Gabriel continued. I hadn’t noticed the third member come out; he was a redhead, with a shocking amount of freckles, and his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbow.

           “And, finally, Florence McClure, our chair of events.”

           The final member appeared on stage; even if Gabriel hadn’t said her name, I would have known she and Adrien were related. They both possessed flaming red hair and copious freckles; however, where her brother was long and thin, Florence was shorter and rather stocky.

           “We wish you all a fantastic school year, and we hope to see you all at the elections in November,” he said. _“Ite in pulchritude, Acadia!”_

There was a roar of applause from the audience, as the council descended from their stage. I assumed that the last line must have been the schools’ motto; I didn’t speak any Latin, so I resolved to look it up later.

           After the council, the president of the school spoke. I thought it was a bit odd for him to go after the students, but perhaps it was a show of humility. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying; instead, I was focused on where the student council members sat, tucked away at their own private table near the stage. I remembered what Regina had said about them earlier: “glamorous.” Maybe she had more of a point than I realized.

           When the event ended around ten, I wandered back to my dorm, and collapsed into the now-made bed. Classes started in under twelve hours; I reveled in the thought of ten solid hours of sleep, and turned out my lamp, content to dream blissfully of all the events that the following day was to hold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fledgling of a work. Insults and constructive criticism can be submitted here: http://sailor-rinn.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you know the reason I chose not to monetize this, it'll be obvious to you by now, but I'll give you a hint--it's inspired by something else. Not entirely--the plots are very different--but enough to make me uncomfortable with saying it was JUST my idea.  
> This is, however, my actual prose voice. I'm a snob, sorry y'all.


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